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Entrapment
ENTRAPMENT
Ronald Bass
First Draft Screenplay
December 2, 1996
Story by:
Ronald Bass
and Michael Herzberg
EXT. HANCOCK TOWER, CHICAGO - LATE NIGHT
Lake Shore Drive. Four o'clock in the morning. Minimal traffic,
minimal life. As MAIN TITLES BEGIN, we PAN UP the face of...
...Hancock Tower. Up, up, forty floors, sixty, eighty, very dark
up here, street sounds fading fast, and as CREDITS CONTINUE we can
just make out...
...a dark FIGURE. Like a spider. Inching its way up the steel
surface of the 98th floor, and we CLOSE to see...
The THIEF. All in black, nearly invisible, with a sleek visored
helmet that conceals the face. Two long, oblong backpacks, climb-
ing ropes and harness across back and shoulders, tools at the belt.
Moving STRAIGHT UP the face of the skyscraper. How is it possible?
CLOSER still to see...
...the piton-like BOLTS are electromagnetic, CLANKING to the steel
to support weight. A button releases the magnetic charge when the
bolt is pulled up by cords to a higher position. The Thief is
remarkably strong and agile, scaling the wall with fluid precision,
until...
...our summit. A softly-lit, glass-walled PENTHOUSE on the
100th floor. Subtle spots which bathe paintings, sculptures,
in a cavernous coldly-decorated space.
Swiftly, deftly, the Thief rigs a suction-mounted HARNESS to the
steel casing above a massive window. Pulleys, metal caribiner
clips, yellow Kevlar ropes. So superbly practiced, the rigging is
placed in seconds, huge SUCTION CUPS pressed to the surface of the
glass. The Thief reaches to a metal rectangle at the top of the
rigging, touches a button, a motor WHINES, the ropes TIGHTEN and
the window...
...POPS FREE, hangs SUSPENDED by the Kevlar ropes which amazingly
sustain its awesome weight. The huge pane shudders in the wind,
and the Thief slips...
...INTO the Penthouse. Nearby, an ALARM BOX softly BEEPS its
60-second warning to the pulsing of a green light, and the Thief
attaches a small computerized DEVICE which runs a series of
possible CODES at dazzling speed on its display panel, until...
...the right one STOPS. Illuminated in red. The beeping, the
green light, go OFF. The device is removed.
Back to the window, air rushing in, attach a similar suction-
mounted harness from the inside, all exquisitely engineered to rig
in seconds, press new suction cups to the inside of the dangling
window pane. A small remote control clicker...
...RELEASES the outside suction cups. The window's weight now
supported by the interior rigging. The outside equipment pulled
INTO the apartment in a single tug. The WHINE of a motor, and the
pane pulls UP, the Thief expertly POPPING it into place.
No trace of entry.
Rapidly folding the rigging into an astonishingly compact bundle,
the Thief SCANS...
...the profusion of priceless art. The paintings run to Otto Dix,
Franz Marc, Marcel Duchamp. One statue an obvious Rodin. The soft
lighting makes walls seem invisible, everything with an infinity
perspective in mind. An obsidian slab dining table that seems to
end at the horizon.
The Thief has packed the rigging away, taken out a large cylin-
drical TUBE bearing a label we can't read. Knows the way, quickly
through the spectacular apartment, past oils by early German
expressionists, Russian futurists, a Rothko, a Kandinsky, a Francis
Bacon. The Thief has no interest in these, and as CREDITS CONTINUE,
we enter...
...a powder room. A lime-green poured concrete sink, a copper-
plated commode, and across from these...
...a single PAINTING. Unlike the others, clearly an Old Master.
A 17th century city on the water, churches, spires, an ancient
bridge. The Thief wastes no time, unceremoniously...
...CUTS the painting from its frame with sure, perfect strokes.
Rolls it quickly in acid-free paper. Opens the cylindrical tube,
pulling out...
...another CANVAS which we cannot see. Deftly unrolls this,
fitting it carefully into the stolen painting's now-empty frame.
Re-hangs it. Stares for a beat through the opaque helmet visor.
Approves. Slips the rolled-up stolen canvas into the empty tube.
Leaves. Before we follow, we shift angle to see the replacement
canvas...
A cheerful acrylic portrait. Bozo the Clown.
WITH the Thief now, moving fast, into a panelled library. There is
a CHUTE built into the wall, a brass lid with the words U.S. MAIL.
The Thief pops the labeled tube DOWN the chute. Gone. Steps...
...onto a bookshelf, reaches up to punch out an overhead grating,
and...
Disappears into the vent. Reaching back to refit the grating
seamlessly into place.
INT. VENT
Halogen flashlight leading the way, our Thief shimmies down the
narrow space, arriving at...
...an open vertical AIR SHAFT, BLASTING air straight up the 100
floor height of the skyscraper, with frightening FORCE. Calmly,
the Thief clips on a different harness, unzips a nylon cover from
the backpack, and simply...
LEAPS DOWN the air shaft, startling the shit out of us, as, for an
instant...
...the force of the updraft seems to HOLD the Thief in place,
suspended above 100 stories of nothingness. Then suddenly, the
Thief...
...DROPS SHARPLY, an exhilarating moment of absolute FREE FALL,
until a cord is tugged and...
...a nylon PARACHUTE OPENS with a pop. We watch the Thief drifting
lazily down. A ride any kid would pay big money for...
EXT. HANCOCK TOWER - LATE NIGHT
Our original exterior VIEW of the skyscraper's penthouse. REVERSE
ANGLE now to see in far distance...
...the dense forest of silhouetted OFFICE TOWERS of downtown
Chicago against the night sky, and we ZOOM TOWARD them, covering
miles in three seconds, to CLOSE on...
...the highest floor of the SEARS TOWER, and THROUGH an unlit
window to see...
...a TELESCOPE. A silhouetted FIGURE looking through it. SNAP
to...
VIEW through the scope's lens. An amazingly CLOSE detail of the
Hancock Tower Penthouse. The scope now PANS DOWN the length of the
Tower, to...
The street. The Thief climbing onto a battered old Lambretta.
Calm as you please. And as the scooter glides off...
We HEAR our unseen voyeur WALK AWAY from our telescope. A door
OPENS somewhere, and as CREDITS CONCLUDE, it...
Closes. Softly.
INT. WEBBER ASSURANCE - DAY
A basement corridor. Long, bare, dimly lit. Silent. We're in the
bowels of somewhere. A startling CLANK, like a prison cell
unlocking. A FIGURE enters the corridor, coming this way, on the
hurried side of brisk.
HECTOR CRUZ is 42, tanned, fit, graying hair swept back in a Pat
Riley do. He wears Riley's Armani, too. Maybe this guy coaches.
Heels ECHO until he reaches a plain door with discreet lettering...
NO ADMITTANCE FOR ANY REASON. There is a dull silver rectangle
below the words. He holds his hand up to it...
Nothing happens. Shit. Dries his palm on his perfectly-creased
slacks. One more time. CLICK. Enters...
INT. SITUATION ROOM - DAY
An unexpectedly VAST semi-circular room, the entire inner circum-
ference made up of a single continuous WALL SCREEN, separated into
a seamless array of IMAGES...
Three-dimensional rotating GRAPHICS of every room in the Hancock
Tower Penthouse, SCHEMATICS of electrical, plumbing, and ventila-
tion systems. See-through rotating multicolored models of every
piece of security EQUIPMENT imaginable, components FLASHING as
performance simulations are run. Rapid-fire sequences of indiv-
idual human PROFILES, complete with photos and bio blurbs. Screens
flickering with blizzards of DATA, hurtling past at warp speed.
The Pentagon and CNN would kill for this room.
The largest segment of screen, twenty feet square, runs a LIVE FEED
from the crime scene. The living room of the Penthouse, crawling
with slow-moving cops and technicians, doing their slow-moving
thing. Surrounding this image are a dozen smaller screens, showing
this and other rooms from a variety of camera angles. All live.
We see the library, the mail chute. The powder room. Bozo.
Cruz skips down three steps to floor level, nine separate CONTROL
STATIONS, each outfitted with super-tech panels to process the
avalanche of information. But today, all stations are empty.
Except one.
CRUZ
Baker. You got it solved?
And now we see her. From the rear. Slouched at her station.
Looks like a skinny teenager in tousled tawny hair, rumpled
oversized workshirt, vintage jeans.
GIN (O.S., from the rear)
Actually. Yeh.
Not a kid's voice. Throaty. Music and whiskey and sex and
effortless confidence. Even the voice turns us on.
CRUZ (glances at his watch)
What took you so long, Gin? I
called 4:30 this morn...
And stops. Because she turns with a look that would freeze anyone
to stone.
GIN
I was with someone, all right?
Now we really see her. Delicate bones and features, slender body,
radiating the power of a natural heart-stopping beauty. GINGER
BAKER is 32, ethereal and feral at once. Electric green eyes
crackle with an intellect and a will that are not to be fucked
with.
CRUZ
So? This is work.
He is not kidding. Stainless steel beneath the dapper. They are a
matched team.
GIN
Hector, I hardly know the guy.
Why be impolite to strangers?
And he smiles. Maybe she's lying. He likes her.
CRUZ
Look at those assholes...
He means the cops on live feed.
CRUZ
If the Vermeer were lying on that
table, they'd toss their doughnuts
on it.
GIN
Yeh, well, they didn't insure it,
so they don't have to solve this.
To them it's a crime. To us it's 24
mil, less re-insurance, which is...
CRUZ (grim)
Only thirty percent, Gin.
Ouch. Really?
CRUZ
Which is why you're on this.
Soft and straight. You're the best. I need you.
本文发布在演艺圈门户网，演艺吧，请勿转载．域名www.yanyi8.com .最高评价娱乐酸柠檬201
GIN
He came in through the window.
CRUZ
That's not possib...
GIN
What's not possible is entry through
the doors or the vents. That would
have triggered instant alarm.
CRUZ
The windows are wired, too.
GIN
Only for trauma. They used smart
glass, where the sensors respond to
violation of the panel's integrity.
He's listening. He always does with her.
GIN
I think he scaled the wall, popped
the frame. In one piece.
She sounds awfully positive. Then again, she always does.
GIN
Then, he only had to deal with
heat and motion sensors. They
were on 60-second delay, so the
owner wouldn't trigger the alarm
just be walking arou...
CRUZ
The pane weighs 200 pounds, the
building's 1100 feet high.
GIN
This particular guy is the best.
The best there ever was.
Almost as if she knows who. Cruz shakes his head...
CRUZ
Popping the frame would trigger
the alarm.
She smiles. First time. Even at one-tenth power, it is dazzling
light. She touches the panel before her...
GIN (gently)
I wrote a program and ran it, Dumbo.
The live feed is replaced by a red-outlined rotating three-
dimensional DIAGRAM of the living room. The alarm box glows green.
One window pane glows lavender. She touches the panel, and the
window SHATTERS, the alarm instantly emits a PIERCING SCREECH.
Reset. As he watches. This time the window SLIDES AWAY into
thin air. No sound. A stick figure appears, crawls through the
opening, and the alarm begins the slow BEEP we heard last night.
Cruz just stares.
GIN
Here's how I figured it out...
Live feed replaces the diagram. Our camera ZOOMS toward a VASE of
lilies by the window. All the flowers are tilted in one direction.
Over the lip of the vase, away from the window.
GIN
No one arranges flowers like that.
It was the draft from the window.
He turns to her.
CRUZ
You said. This particular guy.
Now she is beaming. Excited. And just above a whisper...
GIN
Andrew MacDougal.
Delighted at his stupefied reaction.
CRUZ
Why not Houdini? Or Pretty Boy
Floyd? Maybe Jesus Christ.
GIN
Because they couldn't do it.
His slow smile. This fucking kid.
CRUZ
He's been out of the business.
For ten years.
GIN
Maybe not. No one ever proved,
hell, even arrested him, for
stealing anything. But we all
know he was numero ichiban for
thirty years. Why not forty?
She's serious.
CRUZ
Why? Because of the Bozo switch?
Guys have been copying his pack-
rat signature for decades. Maybe
the thief wanted it to look like
MacDougal.
She doesn't even answer. Just touches her panel, and one of the
data screens BLOWS UP to huge size. It is...
GIN
A list of his private collection.
Complete to three acquisitions
last Thursday.
Names SCROLLING up endlessly, next to titles, descriptions,
estimated retail and black market values. Turner, Corot, Thomas
Coles, DeKooning, Klimt, Cezannes, Odilon Redon, Braques, Mary
Cassatt...
CRUZ
No Vermeer. Nothing close.
GIN
Don't be a putz. This is his
legitimate collection, which he
buys. Presentable for any search
warrant surprise party.
Names keep rolling, Degas, Paul Klee. Amazing.
GIN
What he rips off, he fences. And
the money feeds his portfolio of
investments, which are daring, savvy,
and obscenely succesf...
CRUZ
Oh, I get it. He has no interest
in Vermeers, so that proves he stole
one. By that logic, he oughta be a
suspect most of the time.
She shakes her head, sadly.
GIN
You love to embarrass yourself.
Touches her panel. The big screen now shows a grainy VIDEOTAPE
of...
GIN
The auction. Where our client
bought the painting...
We see the Great Room of an English Country estate. Perhaps a
hundred attend. Genteel to the max.
GIN (O.S.)
Ashcroft Hall, Buckinghamshire,
four weeks ago.
The tape PANS five PAINTINGS on the block. We recognize our
VERMEER, the city of Delft, the canal, the bridge. The view PULLS
BACK to include the crowd, and...
FREEZES. One tiny section is circled. And BLOWS UP twenty feet.
high, so blurry as to be unrecognizable. Then, SNAPS to amazing
resolution. The image of...
GIN (O.S., murmur)
Anyone we know?
...ANDREW MacDOUGAL, perhaps 60, as charismatic and shamelessly
virile a face as one can recall. Etched with character and worldly
experience, lit by a twinkle behind the razor-keen gaze. Tall,
wide shoulders, massive hands. This guy would be more fun to fuck
than fight. By a lot.
CRUZ
So he was there.
GIN
Staking it out. Why bid, when
you can mark the buyer, and jack
it within the month?
She leans WAY back in the molded chair. Lifts her long legs
up onto the console. They end in slender bare feet. The toes
wriggle.
GIN
At this moment, he is winging on
JAL flight 307 to Narita, ostensibly
to attend a prestigious auction at
the Hotel Akura, which will include
a mixed media collage/oil by Georges
岸观影时2018年10月04日22:11刚刚结束的《中国相声小品》大赛,来自天津的杨仪、杨少华父子为我们奉献了一段相声,作为今晚大赛的压轴戏。正如在相声中杨仪所说,他已经十几年不说相声了。那这些年《相 Braques, on which he supposedly has
his eye.
CRUZ
But you know better.
GIN
Bet your ass. At Vegas odds.
Touches the panel. The big screen now holds three faces, three
names.
GIN (O.S.)
Research reveals three known fences,
still at large, who are believed
to have brokered Vermeers to black
market buyers. Sandrine Palmer is
hospitalized in Malta with ovarian
cancer.
One face and name disappears. Two remain. KOICHI NARUHITO.
HIROYUKI YAMAJI.
GIN
The other two. Live in Tokyo.
A tiny, dry, adorable, shrug. Which says, bingo.
CRUZ
And you did all this since 4:30
this morning.
Grinning small at each other. She can't help that hers is hot.
She never can.
CRUZ (murmur)
Plus. You were polite to a
stranger.
One of those moments when his attraction to her is too obvious to
ignore. Best to defuse by pretending it's a joke...
GIN (soft and playful)
Sounds like you're sorry you're
already a friend.
Said as banter between pals. Which doesn't make her wrong.
INT. HOTEL OKURA, TOKYO - NIGHT
Auction in progress in the huge traditional LOBBY, where bonsai
trees, paper lanterns and elaborate painted screens counterpoint
the sleek, international, big-money crowd. Everyone milling,
drinking, schmoozing, networking in a babble of languages, as up
on the raised platform...
...the AUCTIONEER has a new piece on the block, a 6th Century
temple scroll, from the Asuka period. It is exquisite, and bidding
seems to be big time, from the rapidly escalating numbers on the
overhead DIGITAL DISPLAY, which reveals bidding status in thirty
currencies simultaneously. As we PAN the hall, we see...
...all non-Asians either wearing headphones, or acompanied by
personal translators at their elbow, to follow the rapid-fire
auctioneer.
Except one.
ANDREW MacDOUGAL stands alone in black tie. Tall and rugged and
polished and focused, and, well, pretty gorgeous. He is bidding on
the scroll, indicated only by subtle gestures with his program and
the repeated finger-stabs of the auctioneer in our direction.
WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S., subtitled Japanese)
Don't do it.
PULL BACK slightly to reveal Gin, who has stepped to his shoulder.
She is barely recognizable to us in her satiny slip of a pale
golden gown that drapes her frame perfectly. Breathtaking would
be an insult.
MacDougal doesn't turn, doesn't seem to even hear her. Just raises
his program to up the bid.
GIN (softly, subtitled Japanese)
You're already over value. By
15 percent.
And now he turns. Straight to her eyes. This is NOT an admiring
glance at seeing the loveliest woman in the Northern Hemisphere.
It is a look that says, in the most understated terms, shut up or
I'll kill you. She shuts up.
His glance goes to his obvious bidding RIVAL, a rather butch
middle-aged Chinese woman in an embroidered version of a Mao suit.
She indicates her bid by gesturing with a tiny Yorkshire Terrier,
whom she holds in her stubby hands. MacDougal raises back.
GIN (subtitled Japanese)
Will you stop being stubborn
for one sec...
And stops. Because he has turned. With the eyes of a lion. Being
pulled from an antelope carcass.
MAC (quietly, subtitled Japanese)
I have a question.
Rich Scottish voice. Impeccable Japanese intonation.
GIN (brightly, subtitled Japanese)
Who the fuck am I?
MAC (subtitled Japanese)
That is of no interest.
Oh. In spite of herself, she looks a little hurt.
GIN (subtitled Japanese)
What, then?
MAC (subtitled Japanese)
Why. Are we speaking. Japanese?
Her eyes move across his formidable face.
GIN
Uh. I'm showing off.
His eyes scan the length of her gown. Her body.
MAC
Something of a habit?
She is minus a comeback.
MAC
You know the alleged value of this
piece from some fucking computer,
which has no clue of the price I
can turn the scroll around for in
30 minutes.
A beat.
GIN
No, you can't.
He blinks. No?
GIN (really sorry)
It's sold.
His great head WHIPS around to see Madame Mao KISSING her pooch,
flushed with victory. He stares for a long moment, a veneer of
philosophical almost masking his rage. When he turns back...
MAC
Are you a confederate of my
adversaries? Or are you just
stupid.
And walks. Away.
HOLD on her. Feeling like both.
EXT. HOTEL OKURA - NIGHT
Mac among the guests awaiting their cars, standing slightly apart.
From behind him...
...a feminine throat clears. Nervously. He closes his eyes for a
beat. Then, turns.
GIN (softly)
How about. If I try humility.
And presents a business card to him with both hands, Japanese-
style. Mac looks in her eyes. Takes the card with both hands.
Reads...
MAC
Virginia Romay...
GIN
Gin, actually, Gin Romay. I
was named after a card game.
MAC
Or a cheap cocktail.
She blinks. His brows raise...
MAC (softly)
As in. I'll have a Gin Romay,
please. With a twist.
That laser, unsmiling stare. Beyond sexy. She gets lost in it for
a beat.
GIN
You're supposed to be charming.
MAC
I'm supposed to be selective.
Glances back to her card. Reads...
MAC
Art and Antiquities Acquisition
Advisor, how alliterative...
Looks up. Still no smile.
MAC
And am I the antiquity?
GIN
In mint condition.
She sighs. Achingly lovely.
GIN
Look, I've studied you, I know...
pretty much...everything.
Do you.
GIN
Made your first millions selling
scrap metal. Then, gold mining
concessions, gems, art, and lately
strategic metals for new technologies
- platinum, zirconium, titanium...
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